Cold and Charisma (BoyxBoy)

Chapter Forty-Six

Riley's Perspective

The morning sunlight poured through Archer's kitchen windows, spilling across my face as I stared at his back.

His white t-shirt stretched over his frame, outlining every curve of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms as he worked over the stove. I didn't want to admit it, but God, this felt domestic.

Like some housewife admiring her husband.

"What are you even making?" I asked, shaking my head to get rid of the thought. Archer chuckled, glancing back at me over his shoulder.

"Breakfast," he said, still whisking some sort of batter. "I'm making you pancakes. And your favorite—my homemade orange juice."

Okay, so not only was he sweet and charming, but he also made me breakfast from scratch?

This had to be a joke.

If anything, I should've been the one making him food after the way I acted last night.

"Pan... what now?" I scoffed, resting my chin on my palm. My finger absentmindedly traced the marble pattern of his countertop. "I thought only movie characters ate those."

"Pancakes, baby," he laughed. "And no, Americans actually eat these. They're pretty good. Here."

He turned around and slid a warm pancake onto my plate with his spatula before drizzling syrup over the top. A glass of orange juice followed right after, set neatly beside it.

"We have something similar in Russia too. They're called blinis, but they're thinner." I said, my eyes lingering on the plate before lifting back to him.

"I mean..." I muttered under my breath, "I guess it doesn't look too bad."

Admittedly, it looked fucking delicious.

Back home, my mom only ever made traditional Russian food. I'd never eaten anything like this before. I could always count on Archer to make me try some weird American dish I'd never even heard of.

"Here, open up." He held a forkful out toward me, trying to feed me.

"That's not happening." I rolled my eyes. "I can feed myself."

"I know you can, but just let me." He smiled down at me softly, dimples showing. When he looked at me like that, I always melted. No matter how embarrassed I felt.

I opened my mouth, allowing him to feed me.

The flavors erupted across my tongue, a taste so different from anything I'd ever eaten back home that I almost didn't know how to react.

It was warm, soft, and way sweeter than I expected.

"Good?" he asked, still smiling.

"I guess..." I muttered, looking elsewhere. I didn't need to admit that I liked his cooking for him to know. He could already tell by the look on my face.

That was another thing I liked about him—I didn't need to try. I didn't need to find the right words for him to understand me.

He just did.

He walked over to my side of the island and sat down on the stool beside me.

"Look, Riley," he began quietly, "we need to talk."

Oh God.

Here it comes.

The inevitable breakup conversation—

"I think you have a problem."

A... problem?

What kind of problem would I even have? What the hell was he talking about?